Can't Pin Me Down
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: "No one was ever going to pin me down again." He slowly slid off the table. "And no one ever has." He passed the doctor back his blood stained handkerchief. Charlie slowly walked out to the door, "And no one ever will." (PART THREE: About Charlie Davis)
1. Chapter 1

PART THREE, BLAKE

A/N Another follow up to Fist Fight, but the last one for the time being since I have so many other diddly darn WIPS to work on. Heavily inspired by gibbsheroic27, and their beautiful work 'Lullaby to Ballarat' (And if you haven't read it, then...what are you doing here god dammit go read that fic!) and the play 'Love Child' (Highly recommended you like good Australian drama) here's my take on the mysterious Charlie Davis. (And before anyone tries to give me trouble, I looked up Lawson's ribbon bars, so yes he did serve in WW II in North Africa. That's right. I have so little of a social life that I look up the ribbon bars of a fictional cop FML )

Blake never really knew what to make of Charlie. Some days, he may as well have been his son, and others it seemed like the boy couldn't stand him. He was a curious specimen, one who seemingly acted like the golden child of the station, and yet, Blake couldn't help but feel like Charlie was always hiding something. It would make him a hypocrite to complain, but he felt as if he would never know the other at all, and that made him slightly sad. Despite his changing loyalties and mysterious life, Charlie was generally friendly, and polite enough. He fit in well here, even if he himself didn't seem to believe it.

It's was the early hours of the morning when Charlie stumbled back into the house. Blake stuck his head out of his office and raised his eyebrows at Charlie, who had dirt smeared on his face, and seemed to have found himself in a bit of a fight. From ruffled clothes to bloody knuckles he had all the markers of someone who'd gone and picked a fight.

"Resisting arrest again, are they Charlie?" He asked, sounding very unimpressed. The sort of way he imagined Charlie's father might talk to his messy son. Charlie took off his blazer and hung it up, before wiping at his bloody nose, successfully smearing it on his cheek.

"No."

"Are you picking fights?"  
"Maybe." He said, flexing his hand.

"You have a dislocated finger." Blake said, pointing at Charlie's hand.  
"I was hoping that I could pop it back into place when I got home." Blake starred at him for a moment, before going up to Charlie and leading him into the surgery.

"No, absolutely not. Sit there." He said, pointing at bed in the surgery. Charlie did as told, either too tired or too hurt to complain. He heaved himself up onto the bed. He dabbed at his nose with his hand, attempting to staunch the blood flow. Blake handed him his hankerchief, that Charlie begrudgingly accepted.

"Thanks Doc." he sighed, dabbing at his nose. "You think it's broken?" Blake put his fingers on the side of Charlie's bruised nose, and felt around. Charlie hissed softly when he touched a sore spot, but he pressed on.

"No. I think it's just bruised."  
"Good, good." Charlie said, with a nod. Blake took his hand with the finger into his own, and sighed.  
"This is going to hurt."  
"I know." Charlie said, dabbing at his nose again. He passed Charlie another cloth.

"Bite." He ordered. Charlie did as requested and it was probably a good thing he did otherwise his yelling would have woken the whole damn house.  
"Bloody Hell!" Charlie hissed, as Blake taped his dislocated pointer finger to his middle finger so he couldn't accidentally pop it back out.

"Yes it does hurt a bit."  
"Jesus did you try and rip it off or something.' he said, drawing his hand protectively towards himself.

"No, just popped it back into place." Charlie glared at him and hopped off the table. Blake moved in front of him.

"No. Stay up there, we aren't done."

"You fixed my finger."

"You still have a cut on your face, a split lip, split knuckles and a black eye." Charlie sighed and climbed back up onto the table. Blake went and fetched him a bag of frozen peas. "Here. Put this on your eye." Charlie did, but didn't look happy about being fussed over. "Now tell me, why are you getting into fights?"

"Well he started it."  
"You're a copper for gods sake, Charlie. You should have ended it."  
"If you lecture me then I'm leaving, I swear to God.'

"Alright, alright." Blake said, as he started to clean some of the blood off of Charlie's face. "What happened?"  
"Bastard knocked Lawson down...So I knocked him down."

"Did you?"

"Eventually."

"What did Lawson say?"  
"He said 'go home, clean yourself up and think about what you did.'"

"What did you do?"  
"I knocked him unconscious."

"I take it he looks worse them you." Charlie smiled, looking even slightly proud.  
"Yep. His nose is broken for sure."

"How would you know?"  
"I felt it crack."  
"That's disgusting." Blake said, with a chuckle. as he tilted Charlie's head forward to let his nose bleed out.  
"I dunno. I thought it was interesting. Maybe I could have been a doctor in another life."

"Maybe." Blake agreed, as he sat up on the bed next to couldn't see Charlie as anything other then a dedicated cop. It was no one's fault, he just couldn't. As soon as Charlie's nose stopped bleeding he'd go about fixing up, since both of his hands were currently occupied. "Do you get into a lot of fights?"

"Used to, a long time ago."  
"How long ago?"

"Ten years or so."

"When you were seventeen?" Really it makes sense to Blake, could almost see teenage Charlie sitting on his table, unruly hair, ruffled clothes and black eye. He could see the thrill of it running in his veins and the excitement in his eyes.  
"Yeah."

"Why?" he asked, as Charlie moved the handkerchief away from his nose, now it wasn't bleeding anymore.  
"Well Doc I'd have to tell you my whole life story for you to understand that." He said, with a little smile. Blake took Charlie's hand in his own and started to swab at his split knuckles with a swap covered in rubbing alcohol.

"I have time." He smiled. Charlie winced at the swab and shook his head.

"I really don't think you want to hear my life story." he offered.

"I think I do." Blake replied, somewhat insistently. Charlie watched the doctor wrap a bandage around his knuckles slowly and sighed.

"Let me tell you that you do not."

"Charlie, no one here cares what you've done in your past."

"Ohhh, I think they do."  
"Charlie." he said, again in the dad tone. "I'm your friend, and if you're getting into fights then I want to know why." Charlie looked like he was considering it before he sighed. Blake did feel slightly bad for insisting but he didn't have as much trust in Charlie as he once did, and while he did love (Or at least like) the boy, he wanted to know if he was any threat to the inhabitants of the house.

"If I don't tell you, then you'll still find out, won't you?"

"Yep." Charlie snorted slightly, but shrugged. But he wasn't wrong. Blake could probably find some way to find out what he'd done in his past.  
"Fine." He said, watching the swab for a moment. "Okay. Fine." he said, with a bitter sigh. "My dad's name was Richard Davis. He was a police man. And I look just like him." He said, taking his other hand to fumbled through his pocket for his wallet. He opened it with one hand, and tipped it's contents next to him on the bed. He picked up a creased and yellowed picture and Blake didn't have to see it to know what it was. "He died when I was eight. World War II happened, and like you and Lawson, he enlisted, and went off to fight." He spat. "And he never came back." He said, tightening his hand into a fist around the crumpled paper. "And my mother has been grieving, and I've been angry ever since." he said. "He went to fight in North Africa, I think. Like Lawson." He murmured. "He sent us letters, all that stuff, like you see in the movies." he sneered. He looked angry at his father's death rather then sad. "And suddenly, no one wanted anything to do with us. Don't let Hobart trick you into thinking that all police are family, because maybe they are, but only when you're a white Australian. If you're the child of a German immigrant then it sucks to be you." he said, and actually had to wipe angry tears out of his eyes. "Shit." He said, after a moment. "I thought I was over all of this." he whispered. "I was okay." he mumbled, and sighed. Blake put a hand on his shoulder.  
"Charlie...It's okay if you can't.' he said, and Charlie glared at him.  
"You wanted this." He said, with venom, as if he was expecting Blake to take some kind of joy from his pain, and seemed to summon his strength to continue. "My mum's parents were German immigrants from World War I." He said, "As you can imagine, that made us popular." He said, wiping at his eyes again, "She seemed to lost track of herself, lost in an ocean of grief, and that left eight year old Charlie Davis in charge of his two little brothers." He said, "We had no money. Mum worked, of course, but it wasn't enough. I was eight. I worked, sure. I delivered papers and did errands but it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough." Charlie has to stop talking to wipe at his bloodied face again with Blake's hankerchief. The quiet is deafening. Blake quietly puts a hand on his cheek.

"Charlie."  
"You wanted me to tell you why I get into fights. This is why. When I was nine, we were evicted. When I was twelve, I started skipping school. When I was thirteen, my mother remarried. His name was David. He wanted me to change my last name to match his, but I wouldn't." He muttered. "My mother had my youngest brother with him. God I hated the bastard." He said, tilting his head back to look up while Blake worked on his second hand. He regrets asking because despite having happened so long ago, it sounded like it still caused Charlie a lot of pain. "He walked out on us a year later." He said, "And my mother changed her name back to Davis." He murmured, his anger seems to have wanned, and given way to a terrible sadness. "And when I was about...Fifteen, I ran away because I was so angry." He murmured, looking down at his hands, while Blake washes the tacky blood off his face with a damp wash cloth.  
"Ran away?" Charlie nods.  
"Mm." He said, and sighed, before he continues his story. "Of course I still had no money, and god knows that David took all of her money. Fifteen years old with no prospects. I did the only thing that I could see aside from prostitution. I fought. I didn't make anything at first because I kept losing. But after a while, I started winning." He said, and he actually looks rather proud of himself. "I had a reputation, and I was letting out all of the anger that I'd had since I was eight years old.' He said, and looked over at Blake. "I felt happy. Sometimes...I would meet people I used to know...And they would look so disappointed in me." He said, before shrugging. "I didn't care, back then. I just wanted to be angry forever." He smiled. Blake gently stuck a plaster over the small abrasion on his cheek.

"I assume you weren't?"

"No. No I wasn't. That's the thing about anger. It's hard to sustain." He murmured, "And once I ran out, I lost all hope of winning anything,"  
"Really?"

"Mm."

"I don't believe that."  
"You should, because it's true. Eventually, I got caught. "

"They let you be a police man with a record?"  
"No..No. I didn't get charged, for whatever reason. I suspect it was because the Chief knew my father. But he said something to me. Before he let me go. I can remember every word of it, he said to me, he said 'You're a disappointment to family name, Charles, I know the type of boy you are, what your mother raised, and mark my words, you'll be in the cells before you're eighteen' and my god that made me angry. Something so deep down inside of me was so angry that I wanted to bash his stupid ruddy face in with a type writer but I didn't because I didn't feel anything after that. After he finished I couldn't feel angry, or sad...Anything. Like a huge wave of Apathy washed me into the ocean of it."

"That's very poetic."

"I've had a lot of time to think about it."

"What did you do after that?"

"I did what I always do, Doc. I ran. I just ran." Charlie said, as he dabbed at his eyes again. "I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran half way out of Melbourne and then back again. I ran until my legs shook and it felt like I'd finally expelled every breath of air out of my lungs." He sighed. "And then I ran where I always do. I ran to my mother." He said, "And she looked at me and she said 'Richard' and I realized that...That was who I was always going to be. Richard Davis's son. Charlie never even got to be born because he was always hidden inside of Richard's genes, and I told her 'No. Mum, it's me, Charlie' And she cried. And I cried. And she was so...Hungry for me." He said, "And then I realized why I was angry. It was because the Chief was right. I was a disappointment. And I hated that he could pin me down like that. I didn't sleep that night. I made a promise to myself. No one was ever going to pin me down again. Not my brothers or my mother, or the chief or Munro or Hobart or Lawson or Mattie or Beatrice or you!" His voice sped up with each name as did the volume. He slowly slid off the table. "And no one ever has." He passed the doctor back his blood stained handkerchief. Charlie slowly walked out to the door, "And no one ever will." He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He just turns half around, and said "Good night, Doc."  
"Good night, Charlie." Blake replied, as Charlie slowly made his way up the stairs. He goes back to his desk and sits because, despite knowing so much more about Charlie, it still felt like there was so much left to know, and he really didn't know what to make of him at all.

…

"So what do you think of him?" Lawson asked, finally. After hearing Blake's explanation for Charlie's bruised state. Blake watched Charlie argue with Hobart from a distance. Right up in one another's faces yelling, and Blake can't think of a better place for Charlie to be.

"I think...That the world lost a fantastic actor, the night Charlie Davis chose to become a police man.'

"You think so?"  
"I think there's a lot more too it then he told me."

"Really?"

"Hm." Blake replied, as Charlie threw his arms up at Hobart and thundered off to find Munro to settle the argument. "What are they fighting about?"

"I have no idea. I'm going to let them sort it out." Lawson offers.

"Really?"

"I sort of want to see Charlie punch him again." Blake chuckles as Munro tries to sort out his two shouting Sergeants.

"Of course you do." Blake replied, shaking his head and looking at Charlie for a moment. He storms out the door and off. Blake can't help but smile at his dramatic behavior. "He told me that he was never going to let anyone pin him down again."

"Really?"  
"I think he tries very hard." Lawson nodded, and looked towards the door Charlie stormed out of.  
"I agree."

…

He is not smiling at three am when Charlie still hasn't come back. Everyone is looking for him, worried and scared. It doesn't take him too long to work out where he would have gone. He doesn't tell anyone where he's going, because he doesn't want to worry them. He should have seen it last night, in Charlie's eyes. The boy had seemed fine the next morning, but he should have known. Charlie's an excellent actor. Very good at pretending that he's happy, that he's fine. That things are okay. Even if they aren't because he doesn't like making people worry.

He drives out of town and along the road, until he sees a figure wearily walking down the road, arms folded across his chest, he flashes his lights to get his attention. He doesn't miss Charlie's arms folding tighter. He parks, and jogs up after him.  
"Where are you off to?" he asks, Charlie doesn't respond, just keeps walking. "Charlie..." He said, softly. Charlie's knees are shaking, and he doesn't miss the way his feet turn in with every step. "Stop. Sit." He said, and Charlie spins to face him, his face is red, his nose is red from where he'd evidently been rubbing at it with his sleeve and he's probably been crying since he left.  
"Just leave me alone! You got me to talk last night, isn't that enough? Piss off!" He demands, before he starts walking again. Blake finally catches up with the distraught Sergeant.

"Charlie!" He said, and Charlie finally stops. And it's a good thing he does because not a moment later his knees give way and Blake only just manages to grab him before he hits the dirt. He manages to get Charlie's uncooperative body against his in a sitting position, Charlie weakly hits his balled up hands against Blake's chest in a way more resembles a child then anything else. "No! Put me down put me!" He shouted, before choking on his tears slightly. "Put me down..Put..." He said, as he dissolved into tears, his hand went limp and for a long time, they just sit in silence.  
"What's brought this on, Charlie?" Blake asks, softly, as Charlie seems to have calmed down now.

"I just want to go home." He said, softly, mostly into Blake's coat then actually to Blake.  
"I know." he said, softly, and rubbed Charlie's back gently. Right now, he really could see a much younger Charlie Davis, one who wasn't so angry, one who wasn't so bruised and dirty. A little boy who just wanted his dad to hold him and tell him things will be okay. One who just wanted to go home to his mother. One who was too young to know what he knew. Blake put his hand on the back of Charlie's head and just let him hold onto him for however long he needed.

"Sorry." He mumbled, eventually sitting up and wiping a bandaged hand at his black eye as if he were wiping away tears. His face is still very red, given how pale Charlie normally is. "I normally have more control then this."

"I'm sorry. You didn't want to talk last night, and I made you." Charlie smiled slightly.

"I'm too young to be this angry."

"You are." Blake agreed, gently taking Charlie's hand in his own.

"I just wanted to be free to follow my own life."

"Me too." Blake said, "And here I am.' Charlie nodded.

"Sometimes I think I'm more like him then I am myself."

"Really?"

"I'm a police officer. I'm stoic. I have no sense of humor. I'm a liar."

"Are you?" Charlie nodded. "What lies do you tell?"  
"I tell myself that I'm not his son, but rather, yours."  
"Mine?" Charlie nods.  
"And you're so proud of me because I am fast, and attractive and clever and reasonable."He puts the hand with the dislocated finger over his mouth for a moment. "And you don't care if I clench my hands to much, or that I don't understand jokes because there's this...This bridge between us, and when I smile at you, you smile back, and you...You hold me." He said, before smearing at his face again. Blake pulls him back into his arms. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine." he said, softly, because he hadn't known that Charlie could think like that. He'd always been so...single. Like he knew. He'd always been by himself and Blake had thought that was how he'd wanted it to be. "Charlie…" He murmurs, "I'd be happy to be your father. And you're right. I would be proud of you. In fact, I am." Charlie gives a slight smile though his tears.

"Even if I get into fights and get poor grades?"

"Even if you get into fights and get poor grades." He promised, and there they sat, somewhere on the roadside, halfway between Ballarat and Melbourne, Charlie stripped of his protective shield, revealing all that's left to be a very hurt child, in the arms of an equally hurt man.


	2. Between Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine

You win your first fight at sixteen. You break a finger and your nose bleeds down your face. The headlights of a cat illuminate the ring, the wind rustles the money on a small table nearby. It's November. Far away the distant sound of fireworks accents your punches, the cries of 'remember remember' fill your ears. You hit harder because that's why you're here, Charlie. You hit harder because you don't want to remember.

It's not until many years later, when you're almost twenty nine and sitting in the studio of your lodgers house, and the fire burns in front of you, casting a slightly yellow glow onto his face, and hollowing his cheeks, when your head is on his shoulder and the weight of his arm over you is comfortable that you really let yourself feel guilty. It's not the sort of permeable guilt that you feel when you think about the dog that died when you were ten, but rather, a slight guilt that eats away at the back of your mind. The worst sort. He asks you what's wrong, but you don't have a reply for him because you only just got him. You don't want to lose him by telling him that when you were sixteen you beat the shit out of a fourteen year old boy.

When you are five, and small, you can see your father's police uniform. It''s black, there are shiny buttons on the epulets and they fit nicely in your tiny hands. He calls you 'Charlie' and he carries you to your bedroom because you shouldn't be out of bed right now. You have no siblings to worry about yet, so you let him. The three of you live inside a small house close to the station. There are two bedrooms. One for your parents, one for you. You don't have a lot of toys, not really, your father is a constable. He isn't paid much. He married your mother young, and had you young. But you do have a bed. He tucks you under the covers, and kisses your forehead and he whispers 'Good night, Charlie." It's different to your mother, who says the same thing to you in German. (It's not illegal to speak it yet, just frowned upon) You ask him to stay for a while, and he does. He tells you the story of how he arrested a murderer. You're so excited because you have a hero father.

It's not until your almost twenty eight and walking back into the office with Blake that you realize how very little you really have to do with it. You think about the bee book that Blake hasn't returned to you, and you think about how very easy it is to slap on handcuffs compared to Blake's mystery solving. You think about how you tried to stop him. You think about the report that Melbourne wants from you, but you just can't give. You think about the formal suspension request sitting on your desk, you think about the feeling of Blake's hand on your shoulder. You feel proud when he says Lawson should be proud of you, but the feeling vanishes just as quickly as it came because Lawson is leaving you. And it's your fault, even if he tries to tell you it's not. Blake invites you to his place for dinner but you make the excuse of having paper work so you don't have to face his eyes anymore.

You are ten when your first brother is born. Your father is at war, fighting the incoming German threat. Your mother warns you about the Australian people, and how they will say you are not Australian. She tells you that you are, and that you shouldn't worry too much about them. You pretend it doesn't hurt. Your baby bother cries and she lets you hold him. He stops crying when you kiss him on the nose. You promise to always look after him.

It's not until you are seventeen and sitting in the police station in handcuffs that you realize you have failed him. The sergeant calls you German trash. You don't say anything in return because deep, deep down inside yourself, you know you are right.

When you are twenty five, and the golden boy of the Melbourne station, and he's the inspector, he tells you 'good job, Davis' you realize that he has forgotten you. He invites you out for drinks, and you say yes despite yourself. You want to be liked. You forget that you hate him, at least, for a little while, at least, while the alcohol is inside you.

When you've just turned twenty eight, you're the senior constable. You've worked hard for this, you're put up for promotion to sergeant and you couldn't be happier. You're smart, and attractive and fast and reasonable and you would have made your father proud. (Or at least, that's what the superintendent tells you.) And then the bombshell comes, when you're standing in his office, hat under your arm, two fingers bandaged together after being dislocated in a scuffle. He tells you that if you want to be promoted then you must go to Ballarat. "Victoria, Sir?" You ask, confused as too why they would need you there.

"Too keep an eye on things, Davis." He tells you. "I need someone I can trust down there." You wonder why he can trust you but not anyone else. But you think of how much extra money the promotion will bring, you consider how it might help take some of the sadness from your mother's eyes and the nicer things you can buy your brothers so you say that you'll go. Even if at times you curse your choice and say you would take it back if you could, you end up being happy you took it.

You are twelve when your mother remarries. You hate him. His name is David, his last name is Helter. Charlie Helter is a stupid name, in your own ears. David tells your mother that she cannot speak German to you anymore, lest you get an accent. (Speaking German is illegal now, looking back, it's probably for the best that she stopped, but at the time it had been a scorching humiliation) David calls you Charles, despite your insistence that your name is Charlie. No one has ever called you Charles.

When you a caught in the middle of twenty eight and twenty nine, Blake calls you Charles for the first and last time. You know he means nothing by it, and that people sometimes use names interchangeably. But that doesn't stop you from being reminded of David's ruining influence over the three years he was married to your mother. "That's what you think, Charles." It's cheerful, and you know he isn't trying to hurt you. He likes you, he's your friend. But you don't smile back. He puts a warm hand on your shoulder. Before he can ask what's wrong, you reply with  
"My name is Charlie." All three look at you, before Blake nods.  
"Of course." And he never asks, but later, when you go to bed, he tells you he's sorry. You probably believe him.

David walks out on your family when you are fifteen. Your mother begs him to stay. She cries, and she pleads. You wonder why he would leave you. You were never too bad to him. You always did everything he said. You feel angry towards him, and you cut him out of all the family photos. You realize, slowly, that your mother has cut your father out of them as well. You find out months later that she was pregnant. She gives your brother the last name Davis.

When you are eleven, there is a knock at the door. You don't get many visitors, so you are confused. Your mother rises, and flattens her skirt. She drags a hand though her soft blonde hair. She answers the door with shaking fingers. (You find out years later she thought it was social services coming to take her children away) A man stands there, you don't know him, but she does. He lowers his head, and gives her a telegram. You watch the exchange. She opens it, and cries. You watch from in front of the fireplace. She hugs the both of you and promises it will be okay. She's lying, but you don't know at the time.

It takes you six months in Ballarat to pick another fight. You come up short on the rent because you had to help pay for your brother. He's sick. He's a loser and so are you. You scuffle, and fight and yell. Coins land at your feet but you don't care. You win. Blake will have his rent, and you will have a place to stay. You tell Blake it was a work thing, and no one will ever tell him differently.  
Blake has gentle hands. All doctors seem to. You appreciate them, and you appreciate the way he holds your fingers when he fixes them up. You wish not for the first time, that you had been born his son.

Your father wears his hair curly. He parts it on the right, but that's all he does to it. And so do you, sometimes. When you are nearly fourteen, you start to part yours on the left, to make yourself look different to him. It's a small change in your overall face. You still looks too much like him, Charlie, and you hate that.

When your fifteen, you get a tin of hairgel from a friend. Having smooth hair gives you a difference from him. You love it, so you wear your hair like that everyday. Your mother thinks you look foolish. For the first time, you find that you don't care in the slightest.

When you are older then twenty eight, but not twenty nine for some time yet, Jack Beazley crashes into your life like a comet on a trail. He steals what you thought you had. And your twenty pounds. He almost breaks your rib, and you try so hard to stay strong when Blake doesn't even look at you after. Logically, you know it's not because you came second but rather because he knows who came first, but you still feel like you've failed him.

When you are four years old, your father sits you on his knee, and shows you the sky, and the fragile chandelier of stars that hang in it. He tells you stories you don't remember about them, at the time, you don't care much, you just like being next to him. His fingers are longer then your tiny baby hands but you don't mind because he is with you. Your mother tells him to bring you inside because it is cold and you are young.

The spoon clinks softly against the cup when you are twenty eight and sitting in the Blake kitchen, watching the same stars from the window. In the next room, the piano springs to life. It makes you smile, because you always did like it when the Doctor played. You dance with yourself for a few steps, but you feel foolish. You make him a cup of tea as thanks.

When you are seventeen, you run more then you ever have before. You break out into a sprint as you leave the station, the sprint slows into a jog as you run out of energy. An empty stomach combined with a desire to leave boil inside you, like a storm that shakes the ground as you run. You run until you are sick. And then you run home to your poor mother. She says 'Richard!' and you say  
'No Mum, it's me, Charlie!' And you realize that this is all you ever will be.

When you are twenty eight, but close to twenty nine, you leave Ballarat. You tried to run, but you can't run all the way back to Melbourne. You walk for hours until the lights of the doctors car illuminate you. You try to get him to leave, but when he puts a hand on you, you simply can't hold back. You cry.

At age six, your father carries you to bed, after you fell asleep having him read to you from a thick book full of pictures and words that you don't know. You put your head on his chest, just to hear his heatbeat. You love the sound of it, it feels like for the first time in your life, you have something in common with this man.

When you are twelve and in bed, a moth flings itself against the light in the roof of your ceiling. Across, you can hear your brother's soft snoring. He won't sleep with the light off so you have to wait. You don't understand why the moth is trying so hard to get to something it can't reach. It seems foolish to you.

You're only a few months shy of twenty nine, when you look out the window at the Blake house, and see them having fun, that you finally understand why the moth wants so badly. You cannot believe that you feel a connection to a moth.

When you're almost twenty nine, standing outside Munro's office, Blake's hand on your arm and his eyes carving into yours, you think that you understand why the moth would die for the light as well. Because you have found your light, hidden in the space between you and Lucien Blake.

...

A/N Another chapter down, another on the way I guess. (The next installment is called 'Please Just Stay Dead' Featuring Jean.) I decided to try something new with this chapter, hope y'all enjoyed reading it! Let me know, leave a comment! I don't think I'll try writing like this again, such hard work!


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